The Message
by Bookman230
Summary: "My Dear Watson, Oscar is dead." Moriarty contacts Watson once again after what Moriarty will henceforth refer to as 'corrective action'.


My Dear Watson,

Oscar is dead.

I suppose this shouldn't come as a surprise to you. At least, I hope it doesn't. The fact that such a _weasel_ of a man would force himself into our story… I must apologize, first and foremost. It feels like it has become a habit, this. Me, letting the undeserving stick themselves here, where they do not belong. First your friend Andrew, now this… I had assumed that the message I had sent with Elena March was clear, and I am sure it was, for those big enough to hear it. But the rats below… I had no way to account for vermin like Oscar to receive the message, as I thought we were above them, that they could never hope to be even bit players in our game. But even a fly can infect a lion, can't they? It is my failing, and I admit that freely. You had taught me the folly of underestimation, after all, and it is to my shame that I hadn't taken that lesson completely to heart sooner.

You need not worry this time, as I have made the message abundantly clear. I took into account his frail physiology, of course, and sent only the finest of professionals to kill him. They do quite good work. By all accounts, the job was done excruciatingly slowly, precisely, painfully, and graphically. I am not lackadaisical with my hired hands, Watson, especially on jobs such as this. They were worth every pound. They even took a request! I know, I know, the 'M' engraved into his forehead may be a bit on the nose (or what is left of the man's nose), but you can't be subtle with thugs and vagabonds. I do hope the loss of hands was an effectively blunt metaphor for 'hands off Sherlock and Watson,', as well as the blunt weapons used, but you know how hard it is to work with morons and fools. The extermination of Oscar's friends and clients should drive the point home.

Despite the truly unpleasant circumstances, I must confess my unbidden curiosity. You understand. You can never turn off minds such as ours, can you? What will your reaction to this letter be? Will you even be able to feign the required disgust? Or are you too drained to do even that? Will it be joy at his death, or… I must wonder, Watson, if your prevailing emotion will be… envy. You cannot tell me, Watson, that after all you've gone through with Sherlock, all the work you've put into him (truly, you are the only person who rivals the time _I've_ put into him, and that is no small feat), that to see him dismantled by such an insignificant party does not fill you with the utmost anger and indignation. Do you wish you had taken a scalpel to him yourself? You are a doctor, after all, and inarguably one of the most skilled in existence today. I have no doubt you'd have been able to work around his fragile condition, perhaps even better than my own employee. A careful, pinpoint accurate incision here… a well-injected dosage of a mixture of drugs there… oh, the image alone sends shivers down my spine.

Do you dream of doing such at night, Watson? When you see what he has wrought of our beloved Sherlock, does his face come unbidden to your mind? Does he cause you to boil inside? To fester with rage, with hate? He does not deserve the honor of having your hatred, of course. I must confess a level of jealousy if this is the case. Please tell me I do not come second to some insect in your heart. Even if it _was_ unintended, I did drive Sherlock to fall apart in his addictions first. This man was merely a copycat. Do try to remember that, and keep me first and foremost in your surely invigoratingly dark fantasies and dreams.

I'm sure you have already decided this, but just in case. Do not tell Sherlock of this. At least, not yet. He's rather unstable at the moment, and while I take pride in being his greatest trigger, I'd prefer he focus on his rehabilitation instead of carrying yet another death on his shoulders. It may be hard to believe, Watson, but I did not desire this. I did not want Sherlock broken. Not like this. Not by some pathetic, insignificant, deplorable _waste_ of a being. Not as such an… an _anticlimax_. Were this to happen again, it was to be by my hand. It was to be _glorious_. The great end of our brilliant conflict, the final step of the plan. It would have had reason, _meaning_. It would've been _beautiful_. The perfect end to us. Or at least, to me and Sherlock. I have entirely different plans in store for you, my dear. And even this is but one of many possible plans I have for Sherlock, as I do so hate to repeat myself. Still, were he to relapse by my hand, it would have been _magnificent_. Not like _this_. Where is the meaning in this? Where is the point? It simply… happened. And things do not simply _happen_ to people like us, Watson. Our lives are conflicts, wars, _epics_. Not everyday tragedies. Oscar had deprived the three of us of an ending much more befitting our kind, and for that and many more reasons, he had to pay. Dearly.

But as I had stated before, this is my fault as well, for not showing all of the world that you and Sherlock are _mine_ , and nobody else's. And so, as further atonement, I pledge to you this; until Sherlock is back on his feet, my operations will not cross your path. I have no interest in defeating you both when you are hampered and burdened. There would be no _pleasure_ in it. When I defeat you, it will be when you are both at full strength, so that I will feel the proper triumph, and so that there can be no doubt between us on who is superior. Not only that, but any further Elena Marches or Oscar Rankins will be intercepted. This will not happen again by any other hand but my own. I hope this, along with the corrective action taken upon the recently deceased Oscar, will make things right between us. Do take care of yourself, Watson, and of Sherlock as well. I wait with bated breath for when we may clash next.

All My Love,

 _Moriarty_


End file.
